


The Virtues of Maintaining (Im)Patience

by MegaBadBunny



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: And technically, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bickering, Biphobia, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Ficandchips, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Misogyny, Misogyny, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Post Bad Wolf Bay, Post-Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, Sex, Sexism, Shameless Smut, Slut Shaming, Smut, Squabbling, Transphobia, Tumblr Prompt, additionally there is some discussion/general themes wrt, also warning for brief occurrence/subsequent discussion of, and, as well as, hoo boy these tags got real fun real fast huh, i swear this is mostly smut but there's some heavy stuff in here too, including - Freeform, more specifically the use of transphobic language, though it isn't by either of our heroes so no worries there at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:39:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaBadBunny/pseuds/MegaBadBunny
Summary: She silently berates herself—she knows the Doctor didn’t mean anything other than what he said. She knows that. There was no hidden layer to his words, no snide or passive-aggressive unspoken message. But she can’t help but hear it nonetheless.





	The Virtues of Maintaining (Im)Patience

Rose would love to think of herself as a patient person, someone capable of reflection, of consideration, of _waiting_ —and to be fair, the description is completely accurate for her in some situations. This, however, is not one of them.

(In her defense, he just told her he loved her, _again_ , apropos of nothing and no one, without the pressure of onlookers or a ticking clock or a disappearing TARDIS. Just the two of them, sharing a hotel room and a bed like they used to—it’s bizarre how normal it all feels, even after years and universes apart—and just as she was drifting off to sleep, a soft murmur greeted her ears, so quiet she almost could have imagined it. How else was she supposed to react?)

At first, he freezes at the touch of her lips on his, Adam’s apple bobbing so nervously Rose can only imagine it’s stammering in time with his single human heart. He seems more surprised than anything. Probably he was just expecting a smile in response, maybe another whispered confession to match. But the Doctor melts into the kiss quickly, mouth warm against hers, a tentative hand inching upward to cup her by the jaw. It’s nothing like the frantic kiss on the beach; it’s slow, sweet, sugary candy rolled around and around on their tongues, savored luxuriously now that they’ve got the time for it.

Sleepiness still weighs heavy on Rose’s bones but something more insistent starts tugging at her now, a deeper pull, blossoming liquid and warm at the pit of her belly. She scoots closer to the Doctor, her body pressed to his as she opens her mouth to deepen the kiss. His hum of surprise buzzes against her mouth and as if it’s got a mind of its own her tongue darts out to taste him, gliding slickly over the swell of his lower lip. The realization of his closeness overwhelms her like a tidal wave, so much, too much, _not enough_. Rose feels the Doctor but she wants to _feel_ him, her hands wandering beneath his shirt and one thigh insinuating between his. His boxers and the hair on his legs tickle her bare thigh; his skin is warm under her hands, pressed spread-eagle to his spine and the back of his ribcage, nails biting gently into tender flesh. It’s more of the Doctor than she’s ever touched and it makes her dizzy, drunk on the feel of him, here and hers and _forever_.

His fingers tangle in her hair and his kiss grows more insistent, his free hand clasping her by the hip, and Rose stifles a happy gasp when she feels him hardening against her stomach. She’d never quite dared to hope that he might want the same things she does, or have the same burning gut-instinct or needful animal things, but if his actions and reactions right now are anything to go by—his rapid breathing, the flutter of his heart under her fingertips, his cock pressing insistently into her belly and his hand that can’t decide whether to cup her bum or pull down her pants or tease her breast through her shirt—then he _wants_ , maybe has for quite some time now, maybe he’s the same in some ways as everyone else Rose has ever—

Rose’s mouth suddenly goes dry and her pulse skips a few beats. Hands withdrawing to the safety of her own body, she draws back from the kiss. She hesitates.

“Sorry,” the Doctor blurts out breathlessly.

Surprised, Rose laughs. “What on earth for?” she asks, her voice shaky.

“For whatever I did wrong?” the Doctor replies, an eyebrow arched in confusion. “For whatever’s causing you to pull away. Not that you shouldn’t pull away if you want to,” he amends quickly. “I can appreciate a need for boundaries or space. Be a bit of a hypocrite if I didn’t. And of course anything that transpires has got to be consensual on both ends, and I appreciate that there’s usually a buildup for such things, a cultivation of sorts growing over time, normally wouldn’t have jumped into it so quickly myself but I might have got a bit carried away, new human hormones and all that, and everything’s so fresh right now and you smell good and I missed you so I sort of threw the rulebook out the window but probably I should have asked first if it was all right for me to stick my tongue down your—”

“You’re fine, Doctor,” Rose laughs, and the sound is a little more genuine this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Pretty sure I started it, anyway. I just needed to catch my breath, is all.”

The Doctor’s eyebrow arches in suspicion. “Really? Because I’d understand if you want to stop, it’s all rather new after all—”

“It’s nothing, okay?”

Scanning her face, the Doctor does not look convinced. Rose avoids meeting his gaze and dips in for another kiss instead, pushing until he rolls over onto his back. She strips off her pants and straddles his hips and grinds against him, slipping him free of his boxers so she can slide slickly along his bare cock. “It’s nothing,” Rose insists, leaning forward to cover the Doctor’s gasping mouth with a searing wet kiss.

He doesn’t ask again.

 

**

 

Rather, he doesn’t ask again until _later_.

Silently, Rose has decided she won’t initiate anything again until enough time has passed, whatever amount of time that might be. It was an impetuous fluke, that first tumble into bed together last night, borne of leftover adrenaline and bottled-up feelings and years of unresolved yearning and angst. _Of course_ they fell into each other’s arms at the soonest available opportunity. And now that they’ve got that first shag out of the way, they can proceed reasonably, like adults. Responsible, respectful, going-about-things-the-sensible-way adults. At least, that’s what Rose tells herself right up until their tour of her flat the next day ends with Rose’s mouth wrapped around the Doctor’s cock.

(In her defense, he looked so good in those trousers—too good, god, she’d almost forgotten how snug he wears them—and he _did_ smile at her just so, that mischievous tongue-trapped grin that she just _knows_ he picked up from her, and that little half-whimper noise he made in the back of his throat when she kissed him made her wonder what else she could do to draw that noise out of him again, louder.)

Stomach muscles tensing, the Doctor pants, gripping the kitchen worktop hard enough that Rose is sure to find fingernail-shaped grooves dug into the wood’s underside later. His hips stutter, desperate to move and buzzing with barely-restrained energy, and he bites down on a whine, his knuckles glowing white from strain. Rose chances a look up at his face to find his teeth biting into his lower lip, eyes clenched shut with concentration and effort and something about his struggle with control makes Rose ridiculously slick between the legs; his eyes flutter open and Rose’s gaze flickers away, her cheeks burning as she swallows around him. She misses the look on his face when he comes but she hears him cry out in relief, feels his hips quake and his legs tremble, tastes his release. His hands fly down to her head, not demanding, just touching, an anchor, like he might float away otherwise, and something about it makes Rose’s heart swell uncomfortably in her chest.

The Doctor doesn’t waste any time pulling Rose up for a kiss, after, a slow and lazy thing punctuated by his ragged breaths. Rose feels absurdly proud of herself.

“Took your breath away, did I?” she asks cheekily, and the Doctor chuckles.

“Can’t argue there,” he murmurs between kisses. “Blimey, you’re good at that.”

The words hit Rose like a bucket of ice dumped down the back of her shirt.

She silently berates herself—she knows the Doctor didn’t mean anything other than what he said. She _knows_ that. There was no hidden layer to his words, no snide or passive-aggressive unspoken message. But she can’t help but hear it nonetheless— _Of course you would be_ , _Not that I’m surprised_ , _Just how much practice have you had anyway, you nasty little thing?_

(For some reason that last one resounds in her head in a Northern accent, and Rose cringes at the thought of it.)

“Rose?” asks the Doctor, concerned, and she realizes she froze in place, stopped returning his kisses a few moments ago. “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, just a little too quickly. “Just, y’know. Had a cramp.”

“A cramp,” the Doctor repeats.

“Yeah, in my leg. Like, my shin. My calf, I mean. From being—you know. From when I was—when I was down on the—”

“Right,” replies the Doctor, scratching the back of his neck. “From the kneeling. Makes sense. Sorry about that. Should we take a little stroll, walk it off?”

“No, no, I’m fine, now. Everything’s fine.”

The Doctor’s brow knits in consternation. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Rose replies flippantly. “’Course it is. Don’t be stupid.”

Hesitating, as if he’s uncertain whether he should push this further, the Doctor opens his mouth to speak again, but Rose cuts him off with, “Would you like another?”

The Doctor laughs uncertainly, pink blossoming across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Doesn’t one typically reciprocate that sort of thing before accepting a repeat performance? Perhaps in a bedroom setting this time, lessen the chances of any further spasmodic contractions?”

Rose hums in consideration, sidling up close while she forces on her very best sultry grin. It isn’t too difficult to pretend, as close as she is to the Doctor, with his hair all disheveled and clothes gloriously rumpled and mouth snogged red and god, he’s so beautiful, and he wants this, wants _her_. It isn’t long before her smile melts back into something true.

“Seems fair,” she says, arching up on her toes to kiss him again.

(They don’t make it to the bedroom.)

 

**

 

It’s almost bizarre, how easily the Doctor slides into Rose’s life in this universe. Of course there are some rough edges, some ill-fitted planes scraping together here and there, but for the most part, things seem to bend and rearrange around him effortlessly, water bubbling happily over and around a rock in a stream. Rose blames this for how easy it is to fall asleep with the Doctor on the couch; it’s like they’ve done it a thousand times, his hand on her stomach, spooning her close as they drift off in front of some nonsense thing on the telly.

(It should be strange—his erratic and minimal sleep schedule on the TARDIS meant that any time they shared a bed, or Rose drifted off during a film, or took a kip on the jumpseat, she’d fall asleep by herself, and wake up by herself just as often. Sure, sometimes she’d awake to find the Doctor still next to her, but he’d always be awake, reading a book or pondering the big-bad-of-the-day or solving differential equations in his head. But he was just as likely to be gone when Rose awoke, off tinkering in the bowels of the TARDIS or researching their next destination or fixing them both a snack in the galley. And even if they cuddled for warmth or comfort or any other number of thinly-veiled excuses, Rose never awoke to find him still curled around her. So it should be strange, the sensation of him still pressed up against her, his sharp edges softened by her curves, his chest moving slow and deep in the tides of sleep. But it isn’t strange at all, and that’s perhaps the oddest thing.)

It’s the middle of the night and the original telly program is long since over when Rose awakes at the feeling of something poking the small of her back. Blinking sleepily, it takes her a few seconds to figure out what exactly it is, but when she wriggles her hips experimentally and the Doctor hums behind her, his fist clenching against her belly, she grins.

“Sorry,” the Doctor mutters into her shoulder. “New body’s a bit of a nuisance. I swear I used to have control over this sort of thing.”

“It’s not all bad, is it?” Rose asks, grinding back into him, and the Doctor sighs.

“No, it’s not,” he concedes.

Rose shifts so that he’s right where she wants him, cock nestled in the crook beneath her bum, trapped between her legs, and the Doctor groans. His hand slips from her stomach, down down down between her thighs, where she’s already growing slick with want. “Not bad at all,” the Doctor murmurs.

At first it seems like they won’t even have time to remove their clothes, the way they both rock against each other, the friction between them exquisitely torturous even through all their layers. Rose’s muscles clench wetly around the Doctor’s fingers and she moans, head rolling back against his chest. But soon she wants more. In a scramble of limbs they tug off their pajama-bottoms and pants, touching and kissing and groping and grinding at every opportunity until they’re both on their knees and the Doctor pushes into her from behind, Rose bracing herself against the couch-arm for leverage.

“Fuck,” she hisses, because it just feels so bloody good, the way he stretches her, his cock sliding in and out. The Doctor pushes in deeper and Rose’s mouth falls open, hands scrabbling and nails squeaking against the upholstery. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Language,” the Doctor chuckles breathlessly, but before Rose can figure out whether his admonishment is serious, he leans forward to press a hot kiss to her shoulder, grazing her skin with his teeth when her muscles flutter and squeeze around his cock. Rose is fairly certain she hears him mutter a curse of his own, the words muffled damply by her skin. Rose moves one of his hands from her hip to her breast, teasing herself with his fingers until her nipple peaks sharp and taut. He’s slow to respond, and for a moment, Rose worries—was she too forward, should she let him figure this sort of thing out on his own, should she wait for him to discover what she needs?—but soon enough his fingers move beneath hers, cupping her breasts and lightly pinching her nipples until they’re deliciously tender and oversensitized, shooting tendrils of warmth down to her throbbing clit and leaving Rose gasping for air.

His rhythm falters, well-timed strokes turning erratic, and the Doctor’s breaths grow shallow. His grip on her breast borders on the painful as he buries his face against the nape of her neck, gasping, begging, he won’t last much longer, he just, she just feels so, please, Rose, _please, fuck_ , and Rose comes with a shout, the Doctor following immediately after.

After, when it’s time to acknowledge that this sweaty panting heap they’ve collapsed into is no longer comfortable, the Doctor pulls away and rises off the couch, lazily tugging his shirt off overhead and tossing it to the floor as he disappears around the corner, stumbling toward the loo. He’s not gone for two seconds before he peers back around the corner, face pink.

“Off to take a shower,” he mumbles; his body is painted silvery-blue in the flickering light of the telly and Rose’s eyes wander, touching everywhere the light does. The Doctor’s cheeks darken under her gaze. “And, and I just thought,” he stammers, tugging on one ear, “if you didn’t want to wait, you could always, y’know. Join me. If you wanted.”

“In the shower?” Rose asks, eyebrow piqued in pleasant surprise.

“Well, I was just thinking. Two birds, one stone, all that. Less water all that way. Strictly for the sake of saving on utilities, of course.”

“Of course,” Rose laughs.

The Doctor’s eyes briefly flicker over her body when she discards her shirt and rises to join him, but he quickly averts his gaze—Rose can’t decide if it’s endearing or frustrating. Really, it’s just a naked body, weren’t they fucking each other just moments ago? But maybe he just doesn’t have hungry eyes the same way she does, Rose thinks. _Maybe_ he’s _not a dirty little tramp_ , her thoughts helpfully supply, and Rose shakes her head sharply, dislodging the words before they can take root.

There’s no sex in the shower but they still stand under the water until it runs cold, because they’re both still tired, and because it’s nice to just hold each other, and because they can.

(He doesn’t ask anything, but Rose still imagines she can feel the ghost of the question and its answer lurking in the room.)

 

**

 

Soon enough (too soon) it’s time to burst out of their bubble, the happy _just-the-two-of-them_ one, so they can do silly things like _get fresh air_ and _debrief Torchwood_ and _obtain actual food_. It wouldn’t be a problem except that means leaving the flat, and that means interacting with other people. And for the most part, that’s fine too—Pete sets the Doctor up with his papers and Jackie takes him out for his things and Tony good-naturedly babbles at him as if he’s always been with them, as if there never was any _Before_ , and the Doctor is as permanent a fixture in their lives as anything’s ever been.

Actually, Tony is almost a little _too_ comfortable with the Doctor.

“So Rose ‘n you are staying here?” he asks, his tablet abandoned and long-forgotten in his lap, his little face as stern as Rose has ever seen it. “You’re not going back to the other universe?”

The Doctor laughs. “Don’t think we could even if we wanted to. Not that I particularly want to.”

He shoots Rose a glance. “You don’t want to, right?”

The tiny hairs on the back of Rose’s neck stand on edge, hackles rising like a cat ready to fight. They still haven’t spoken about any of this, not really. They’ve kissed and they’ve slept and they’ve fucked and they’ve talked but they haven’t properly _talked_. Not about the frustration of having your decisions made for you, the hurt of being left behind, of being deserted without a goodbye. Not about anything important. Rose has tiptoed around anything even remotely resembling a Big Important Conversation™ because she’s certain the Doctor will go sprinting for the hills the second she tries to bring it up. So where does he get off bringing all of this up here, now, so casually, like none of it means anything?

He’s trapped her, Rose thinks; the Doctor knows she won’t have a serious conversation or pitch a fit in front of Tony. He’s using her baby brother as a bloody _shield_. He can get a quick and easy answer out of her, like the coward he’s always been, and then pretend that this is all they ever need to say about it.

“Well, I did work awfully hard to get back there, just to end up stuck back here without so much as a by-your-leave,” Rose replies stiffly.

She looks up from her laptop to find the Doctor watching her with an expression that could pass for casual if she didn’t know him any better. But his jittering leg and tense jaw give him away. She remembers the way his voice shook when he leaned to whisper in her ear on the beach, the look of fearful hope in his eyes when he pulled back after. That same uncertainty stares back at her right now.

He’s afraid, Rose realizes. He’s afraid she doesn’t want him—that he’s not good enough.

God, does she ever know how that feels.

Her heart softens. “But I’m happy with my consolation prize,” she says, smiling.

The Doctor’s shoulders visibly loosen. “Good,” he replies softly.

Immediately he takes off talking a mile-a-minute about something more trivial, rattling off factoids and statistics and figures for the closing walls between universes. He’s clearly burning off all the adrenaline generated by that conversation, dumping the excess energy from leaving himself so open and vulnerable. Such openness was a small step, but a step nonetheless, so Rose leaves the comfort of her overstuffed armchair to snuggle up next to him on the floor, sandwiching herself close, her thigh pressed to his. The Doctor doesn’t stop chattering but he does grab her hand and squeeze it; the sweaty heat of his palm suggests that he was significantly more nervous than he was letting on.

Rose decides that a proper cuddle is in order, threading her fingers through his and nestling against his side. Her laptop-work can wait a little bit.

“Excellent,” Tony says, nodding, and Rose and the Doctor each hide a laugh at his solemnity. For a six-year-old, he’s awfully serious sometimes. “Cos I don’t want Rose to go away, an’ you neither. I like you better than her other blokes.”

“Oh, yeah?” asks the Doctor, and Rose’s blood pressure plummets.

“Yeah. I mean they were all right I guess but they were never around long so I like that you’ll be here longer. ‘Cept I like Ripley, he’s always nice to me, an’ Will was too, an’ Dean brung me candy once, an’ that one girl smelled like peach jam, an’ Lissie had a nice cat, an’—”

“Goodness, that’s a roster, isn’t it?” the Doctor laughs—and is it just Rose, or does the laugh sound a little strained? Her stomach burbles uncomfortably. “You’ve got quite the memory, haven’t you?”

“I don’t remember all their names,” Tony admits ruefully.

Fortunately, Jackie and Pete choose just that moment to return from their dinner (thank god, Rose has never loved her mother more for her sense of timing), and Rose wastes no time in telling Pete good-night and ruffling her brother’s hair and giving her mum a hug and a kiss before dragging the Doctor out the door. Silently, she thanks her lucky stars for the diversion, prays she can run from this thing just a little bit longer, until she’s had a good moment to prepare. Until she’s properly ready.

It’s at the pub a few days later that she finds herself cornered.

“So, you’re this famous _Doctor_ , then?” says Ripley, looking the Doctor up and down appraisingly. “Eh, you’re pretty enough, I guess.”

“Thanks,” replies the Doctor, beaming.

“Yeah, well, that’s just Rose for you,” mutters Trevor. He takes a great swig of his beer. “Always an eye for the pretty ones.”

“She’s just got good taste is all,” Ripley replies, with a wink Rose’s way.

“Got an eye for anything with a pulse.”

“Oh come on,” Rose says. She hopes no one notices the red-hot blush crawling across her cheeks and rolls her eyes for good measure. “Are we gonna gossip all night, or are we gonna talk about how the stars came back and we all saved the world?”

“Again,” Ripley interjects.

“Again,” Rose agrees, and the two of them toast. “Here’s to the best team in the universe! Next round’s on me!”

“I’ll toast to that,” says Alicia with a broad grin, and Rose pushes off her barstool with a smile on her face and a spring in her step to match.

Pushing through the bustling crowd, she glances over her shoulder to see the Doctor talking animatedly with her research team, and a warmth envelopes her that’s got nothing to do with beer or the number of bodies pressed around her in the pub. Never once had Rose imagined the Doctor standing still long enough to do any of this—lazy nights in front of the telly, dinner with her family, quiet evenings with her baby brother, trips to the pub with friends. Certainly she had hoped to share his life, with the TARDIS and the adventures and all of time and space at their fingertips, and if the piece of TARDIS coral is as promising as Donna made it out to be, then they’ll have that again someday. Rose still wants all that and she knows the Doctor does as well. But never had it occurred to her that the Doctor might be willing to share _her_ life, too. Never had Rose imagined that any version of him would be willing to give up everything he had for her, to have to rebuild from the ground up, for her. She can’t believe that any version of him would think her worth all that.

The revelation leaves her lightheaded. The Doctor loves her. Really, properly loves her. And she loves him too. _This_ him. She thinks she should tell him that at the soonest available opportunity.

Once she’s piqued the bartender’s attention and got a selection of beer bottles sandwiched by the necks between her fingers, Rose tries to navigate around the crowd back to the Doctor and her friends. But the already-thick crowd seems to have gotten impossibly thicker, so Rose finds herself looking for alternate routes, sneaking through gaps near the wall and circling back round from the loos. She has just skillfully maneuvered between two clusters of dancing girls when, beneath the thumping music, a patch of conversation drifts toward her.

“…just some girls are like that, you know?” greets Rose’s ears; she turns to see that most of the group has given up on her in favor of stalking the dance floor, but Trevor and the Doctor have both stayed behind, their backs turned to Rose. (Good grief, but she got a little jostled and turned-around in the pub, didn’t she?)

“Not that it’s a bad thing,” Trevor continues. “You know. Equality and women’s lib and girls can do all the things boys can do. _Yay, feminism_. But like, some girls just take it a little too far. You know?”

The Doctor hums noncommittally and Rose hesitates, simultaneously curious and dreading what will come next.

“Sorry, mate,” Trevor laughs. “I know it’s none of my business. Just I figure, one bloke to another, it’s good to know this sort of thing early on, isn’t it? She’s a good bird but she isn’t exactly a good girl, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” says the Doctor, his voice pleasant, “and I’m sure I don’t care to.”

“Sure you don’t. No one likes hearing that sort of thing about their girl, but, y’know, one bloke to another, I didn’t want it to be a nasty little surprise for you like it was for me.”

Rose knows she should push her way over, stop this train before it completely derails and smashes the station into a flying pile of bricks and glass, but her feet are suddenly glued to the floor.

 

“Where is, Rose, anyway?” asks the Doctor, glancing round, but Trevor _won’t bloody stop talking_.

“…not even her fault really, just look at her mum,” Trevor is saying now. “Everyone at Torchwood knows what Mrs. Tyler was like before the Cyber attacks. Like mum, like daughter. The pair of ‘em both shagged their way round the labs like mechanical diggers—”

“An inspired turn of phrase,” says the Doctor drily.

“—and they’re probably covered in just as much dirt. God only knows what’s going on downstairs, yeah?”

“Sorry, I’m a bit lost—are you rambling about construction equipment or building infrastructure?”

Trevor drains his beer and sets down the bottle with a loud _thunk_. “I’m just saying, one bloke to another, a farmer’s got a right to know about the state of the land he’s plowing, right?”

“And I’m just saying, pick a metaphor.”

“I mean, don’t you want to know what you’re getting into here, mate? Skeletons in the closet, mold in the basement, swinging for both sides of the fence, page three on the pull, all that?”

At that, the Doctor starts to rise from his stool, muttering something under his breath about _idiots with no respect for the English language_ , but Trevor grabs him by the jacket-sleeve. The Doctor glances down at him imperiously, unimpressed.

“Look, all I’m saying is, the girl’s got an appetite,” Trevor tells him. “I cut things off the minute I caught wind of it, cos I knew it was only a matter of time before she went back on the prowl. She’ll take it from anywhere, mate—doesn’t matter what they’ve got twixt the legs, she’s got them between hers, whether it’s lads or girls or, shit, even the resident tranny—”

 _THWACK_.

Trevor’s words splinter like a broken branch as his head snaps back with the force of the Doctor’s blow.

Amidst the _thump-thump-thump_ of the club music, the surrounding patrons cease their dancing, turning toward the source of the sound, some of them backing off, others murmuring in concern as their hands fly up to their faces. (Ripley, of course, doesn’t back away at all, but looks on in utter _delight_.) Shocked, Rose can only watch with wide-blown eyes as a stunned Trevor stumbles over his stool in an effort to scramble away.

“The _fuck,_ mate?” Trevor hisses, lifting a hand to his bleeding nose. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh, many things, I’m certain,” says the Doctor cheerfully, buttoning his jacket. “For example—one bloke to another—I’ve got very little patience for things that irk me, like small-minded people and genocide and interminable commercial breaks on telly. I’ve got so little patience, in fact, that lately—as you said, one bloke to another—under the right circumstances, I find myself completely foregoing my usual attempts at negotiation and seguing directly into face-punching and species-eradicating. Why, just the other day—and this is strictly one bloke to another, you understand—I eliminated several hundred thousand irksome beings with just the flip-and-switch of a few simple buttons.”

He glances at Trevor, a beatific grin spreading over his face. “Would you like to test my patience again?”

Shaking his head, Trevor slouches off, swearing under his breath the whole way. Rose watches silently, her stomach twisting in her gut until she feels like she might be sick.

(Is that really how the Doctor feels about that sort of thing? Could he really be so narrow-minded, so short-sighted, to get so offended at the thought of her having sex with other people before him?

How will he react when he finds out the truth?)

“Ah, there you are!” the Doctor says brightly, spotting Rose. Sidling up to her in the pub—and steadfastly ignoring how all the patrons save Ripley create a wide berth around him—the Doctor plucks the beers from Rose’s hand and sets them on a nearby table. “I think I might have just broken the law a little bit. Also, possibly Trevor’s nose. Fancy a run before the police show up?”

He grabs Rose’s hand and pulls her away before she can answer.

 

**

 

The police never do show up to the pub—or if they do, Rose never hears about it. They don’t show up at Pete’s place, either, nor at Rose’s flat, though she keeps half an ear trained to the front door just in case, even as she drags the Doctor toward the loo to take care of his bloodied knuckles.

“It’s hardly worth fussing over,” the Doctor insists, but he allows Rose to plunk him down on the toilet-lid anyway, the better for her to swab at his cuts with antiseptic. “Barely lacerated the epidermis. Won’t even leave a decent scar.”

“Is that what you were aiming for?” Rose asks quietly.

“Maybe. I dunno. Who doesn’t like a good manly scar?”

Rose shrugs, slathering ointment on the Doctor’s knuckles before she starts in on the bandaging. Seconds tick by in silence and she can feel the Doctor’s gaze growing heavy on her face, but she doesn’t meet it. She’s too busy taking care of his hand, she tells herself; no other reason her eyes keep avoiding his, have been since they left the pub.

The Doctor fidgets uncomfortably on the toilet-lid. “I imagine this is the part where I’m supposed to say _I’m sorry_ , or _It won’t happen again_ , and I’m more than happy to say those things if you like…but I can’t guarantee they’ll be true,” he says, jaw set like he’s already waiting for her to argue. “That whole bit about _blood and anger and revenge_ might’ve been a tad overwrought but it wasn’t wrong.”

“So is this gonna turn into a habit, then, you punching people who say things you don’t like?”

“I’ll do what I can to defend the people who need it. I mean, really, Rose, the things he was saying—”

“I don’t care,” Rose snaps, hurling medical debris into the rubbish bin. “I don’t need you defending me, okay? I don’t need you punching out blokes for me, I don’t need you getting into trouble, and I especially don’t need you defending my honor or whatever other stupid pumped-up macho bullshit was going through your brain. I thought you were better than that.”

“ _Macho bullshit_ …?” the Doctor echoes, frowning. “Rose, I _am_ better than that—what are you talking—?”

Hands clenched into fists, Rose storms out of the loo before he can finish, her pulse thudding angrily in her ears. She hears the Doctor scramble to chase after her but she doesn’t turn around, just darts into the bedroom and starts prepping the bed, her motions far more curt and brusque than the task requires. She rips the duvet back and fluffs the pillows with a fervor bordering on the manic.

The Doctor appears in the doorway and Rose ignores him in favor of plonking down on the bed so she can remove her boots. “Trevor was right, you know,” she says, yanking her bootlaces loose. “Just for your information.”

The Doctor’s eyes narrow. “Right about what?”

“About me. The things I’ve done since I’ve been here.” Kicking off her boots, Rose sighs. “I mean, c’mon. It’s been years since we last saw each other, Doctor. _Years_. And it’s not like we ever—we never—”

She swallows thickly. “We never promised anything to each other, before. Yeah?”

Glancing about the room as if something in it will offer explanation, the Doctor arches an eyebrow in confusion. “I’m sorry, what has that got to do with anything…?”

“Look. It’s not like you thought I was some blushing virgin. You knew about Mickey, you were there for Adam. You couldn’t possibly have thought I was some precious, unspoiled thing,” Rose spits out, willing her voice to stay strong while she unbuttons her blouse. “So it’s not like Trevor gave you some amazing insight or revelation into my life here. You had to have known, or at least suspected, that I would have relationships with other people. And I did, okay? A fair number of other people.”

The Doctor just stares at her, nonplussed, but now that the dam has broken, Rose finds herself unable to stop the flood of words from pouring out. “And yeah, I slept with some of ‘em,” she says, pulling her blouse off and shimmying out of her jeans after, “cos that’s what a lot of humans do when they’re in romantic relationships. All right?”

“All right,” the Doctor replies uneasily, as if he’s confused about something, and _what the hell is there for him to be confused about?_ And that just irritates Rose even further.

“What?” she snaps, blinking against the tears that threaten to prickle her eyes. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, and you’d never indicated that you were interested in anything like this, besides. So I tried to find someone else. I tried to settle down. I dated around. And nothing ever—no one ever—”

She combs a hand through her hair. “God, no one has ever made me feel the way you do. I mean, some of them were close, but I couldn’t—there was just this great big hole where you used to be. But sometimes, being with someone made it feel a little better, for a little while.”

The Doctor doesn’t reply. Rose purses her lips and crawls beneath the covers, drawing her knees up to her chest. “At any rate, I deserve happiness and love and affection just as much as anyone else, and there’s nothing wrong with it, and I’m sorry if it bothers you that I’m not some fresh new planet for you to explore, if you think I’m just a chewed-up piece of gum or an old gym-shoe or some sort of painted Jezebel or whatever, but I didn’t do anything wrong. I slept with people I liked, who liked me, and we were all adults, and it was all consensual, and I was just pursuing happiness like everyone else in the world, and I’m not ashamed and I won’t apologize for it.”

“Nor should you.”

“That’s right,” Rose says stubbornly.

Then after his words have sunk in: “Wait. What?”

Hands in pockets, the Doctor shrugs. “Why should you apologize? You’re right, you didn’t do anything wrong. Quite frankly, I’m sort of surprised we’re even having this conversation, that you would even think I care about that sort of thing.”

Rose stares at him. “Some bloke told you I’ve slept with other people and you broke his nose.”

“Yes, well,” says the Doctor, tugging nervously on one ear. “ _Some bloke_ also used a disparaging term to describe Ripley, and had been generally rude and unpleasant all evening, and well, you know me. Not terribly tolerant of rudeness, not unless it’s the right sort of rude.”

“But,” Rose stammers, suddenly feeling quite silly as her anger deflates like a pin-pricked balloon, “but, you said—”

“Rose,” the Doctor says gently, “I can promise you that no matter what I said, it was never intended to issue any sort of judgment on your physical relationships or patterns of intercourse with other people, nor the amount of said people involved.”

Rose can only look at him, the duvet clutched tightly in her hands.

“Now, I would, perhaps, be lying if I said the thought of you engaging in romance with other people didn’t make me a tad jealous—can I admit that, now? Is it too early in the relationship to admit that I get jealous sometimes? It’s got less to do with sex than the fact that I love you quite a lot and hope you feel the same way about me and only me—I’m sort of selfish that way—but I don’t think poorly of you because you’ve had sex with other people. As long as I’m the person you want to be with, right here, right now, ideally forever, then that’s all I really care about. All right?”

Dumbfounded, slowly, Rose nods.

The Doctor frowns. “Is this what’s been bothering you?”

“Maybe,” Rose admits, pulling the duvet up close, like it can protect her from this ever-growing sense of overwhelming stupidity and childishness. “Definitely.”

“Well, I’m very sorry if I did anything to encourage that sort of thinking, even if it wasn’t intentional.”

“Not your fault,” Rose replies, snuggling deeper into the duvet. “I’m sorry for being stupid and reading into things.”

“Yes, you’re terribly stupid for having difficulty shaking your culture’s notoriously sexist social conditioning,” the Doctor says drily as he sits next to Rose on the bed. “Seriously, your century’s famous for it. It’s a wonder you lot ever boink bits with anyone at all.”

Rose struggles not to smile. “ _Boink bits_ , who’d you get that from, Casanova?”

“Mmm, you don’t even want to know where I picked up _patterns of intercourse_.”

Chuckling, Rose leans in to press a kiss to his cheek, her chest warming at his hum of satisfaction. When she pulls back after, their faces are both plastered with identical grins.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I love you?” Rose asks.

“You might’ve done,” the Doctor replies softly, “but I’d gladly hear it again.”

She tells him.

 

**

 

The next morning, Rose awakens delightfully slowly, to the sensation of the Doctor’s lips kissing a trail down her throat.

(She can’t say she blames him. She’s been tempted to do much the same.)

He reaches the swell of one breast and Rose’s toes curl in response. Sleepiness still hovers around the edges of her consciousness, weighing her down, drowning her senses in golden-warm contentment as the Doctor eases one hand between her honeyed thighs and strokes gently. Up and down, around, his fingers slicken her further with every motion. Nuzzling down past the neckline of her vest, he traces a line down her breast with his tongue; at the sensation of his mouth closing firmly around her nipple, Rose wrenches from her hazy slumber with a gasp.

“Good morning,” the Doctor hums, pressing a kiss to the valley between her breasts before moving on to the other nipple, his wickedly clever tongue teasing it to full attention until Rose is writhing beneath him. She grinds down on his hand and he slips a finger into her, smiling when her thighs clench around him.

“So I was just thinking,” says the Doctor, kissing down her stomach and pausing at every rib, “I’ve spent quite a lot of time playing the tour guide.” His lips brush the curls beneath Rose’s bellybutton. “It would actually be rather nice to defer to someone with more expertise, for once.”

“Yeah?” Rose pants, grabbing the Doctor’s hand so she can guide him to _exactly_ where she wants him.

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor chuckles, his fingers plunging in and out of her, in and out, slow and slick and hot. With his fingers fucking her just the way she needs it, Rose strokes her clit herself, her mouth falling open at the sight of the Doctor openly watching the display. Pleasure coils deep inside and the Doctor’s warm breath on her sex only makes her wetter. “I think I’ll like it very much.”

“Good,” Rose breathes. “Now, I’d really love it if you’d use that beautiful mouth to fuck me.”

The Doctor smiles. “With pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> the nasty bit about "shagging like a mechanical digger" is courtesy of everyone's favorite emmy-awards-winning showrunner, mr. moffat himself. thanks for the inspiration, buddy!


End file.
